Is This It?
by TheXWandererXWithin
Summary: When a writer wants to be a part of the action in the Kira case, things get a little more complicated than it would seem. LxOC. A lot of inappropriate themes. Why do they call the inappropriate if they're appropriate to the story? I never got that...
1. The Girl from Berlin

I opened my eyes and stared at the water-marked ceiling.

Light from the street lamp filtered past the partially pulled curtain, casting speckles in the darkness.

Numbness flowed through my veins, in my blood, feeding into my brain the need for apathy.

_I must be silent._

The first scream shook my core. My stomach flipped over, and I clutched the worn blanket beneath me. Every cry was a bullet to my gut. I blinked away tears, and remained mute. Distantly, I could hear his beating.

A sudden wave of panic clouded my vision. I had promised not to react, not to say a word. But what if he changed his mind, and killed me too?

I remembered her face, that night, so beautiful and exuberant as she danced and sang with me. How shocked we'd been when we managed to get tickets to their one and only show in Berlin. Too bad we got them from a mad-man. Too bad he'd taken a liking to her.

Too bad I was too cowardly to comply with his demands, scared of what he'd found of my past.

The tears worsened as her screams worsened. I could barely see the water-spots and falling light now. Just a big expanse of recognizable plaster.

I remembered her lips pressed against mine, in the heated excitement of the music and people who loved the same thing we loved. Everyone was happy.

Gradually, her screams turned into a distant warbling. Man, was she hard to kill. Finally, a final thump and the rough, sickening sound of dragging. The bed springs jostling metallically. Bed springs groaning frantically as the bed goes up and down. I listened as he raped her dead body.

I couldn't take it.

I tried to, but I couldn't.

Carefully, I raised myself from the bed. I felt as if I had left my body a long time ago; nothing now would have any consequences. I crouched to the cold wooden floor and carefully extracted a box of matches from within my weed stash.

I would make the fucking Necrophiliac burn.

Moving as fast as possible, I gathered paper, pencils and plastic from my desk, drawers and bookshelf; all the trash from my wastepaper basket. And somewhere within my frantic silence, hearing what a person should never have to hear, it occurred to me to pack some belongings in a rucksack.

I didn't know how to start a massive fire. I'd never done something like that before. But I started with a blanket, and before long, I stood amongst the blistering flames.

I didn't care how I was going to get out. I just wanted the asshole dead. The flames had made their way to door; there was no way to escape. And I could still hear the fucker next door. He didn't know that soon, he'd be a goner. Shoving open my window, I sucked in fresh air. Smoke billowed past me into the night. Slinging my rucksack over my shoulders, I readied myself for the jump.

Chances are the jump would kill me, but then, I would die anyway. The adrenaline which had flown through me minutes before was deteriorating. If I didn't jump soon, I wouldn't be able to. I gripped the window sill with all my might, and shoved myself headfirst into the tumbling darkness of the night.


	2. Acceptance

At 5 AM I reached the Diner. I shivered in the cold of darkness, winds whipping past from the Baltic Sea. I was suddenly aware of my thin night shirt and green and purple striped pajama shorts. Vaguely, though lost in stupor, it crossed my mind that perhaps I should be concerned for my safety. Or, at the very least, embarrassed at my skimpy apparel. But hey, I had just escaped a burning building. It's not like I was planning to attend a pageant or something.

The Diner's dim lights slanted in the shadows, dancing warmly on the drive. The OPEN 24 HOURS blinked sleepily at me from across the road. Motorcyclists and druggies loitered around with nothing to do. I stared at the ground as I walked to the door, afraid of the possibility of seeing a familiar face, but I received no lewd comments. I was not even sure I'd been noticed. I observed in an off-hand, puzzled fashion how pale and bony my feet were beginning to look.

The seats were gaudy and drab, reminiscent of the days before Hitler. The wallpaper, masses of faded roses, was beginning to peel. It looked to be the only slightly updated thing in the building. Everything seemed to have a hefty sheen of dust and a tinge of grey.

Well, that's how the Germans do it.

I hobbled to the counter, sliding gingerly into a high-chair. Aksel, the old withered owner, looked over the counter with his sad, grey eyes.

"Guten tag."

His orb-eyes combed me through, brow knitted.

I nodded. "Guten tag."

He was silent for a moment.

"Coffee. It will be free."

He shuffled into the back kitchen.

I must've looked really, really bad. Aksel's reputation was not that of being generous. He was of the usual make: austere, conservative, and proud of his traditions; he was seen at mass in his faded black suit and tie every Sunday. No matter what.

At the very least, it meant that I would be safe here.

I glanced at the miniature cuckoo on the wall. 5.12. My eyes ached; I closed them. I heard Aksel's muffled voice gabbling to someone. English? I think it was. But I didn't care.

The bent man came shuffling out ten or so minutes later, carrying a heavy, well-rusted teapot. He poured a large mug for me, and, leaving behind a tiny pitcher of milk and some raw sugar, tottered away. I was alone again.

Half-way through my steaming mug, I heard the doorbell tinkle behind me. Another customer. I did not turn. In Germany, you never turn. One uninvited look and you could be dead.

I should have looked.

Faster than lightning and I could not breathe or see. Thick leather gloves over my eyes and mouth. I gasped for air, terrified and struggling against a body of steel. I knocked over the mug and heard it shatter of the floor. I begged for Aksel to hear it as I frantically attempted (unsuccessfully) to bite the leather hand.

A pressure on my head which was cold, hard and metal. I stopped struggling sharply; I even forgot to breathe. Like a frog in the water who's seen a human, thinking that perhaps if it doesn't move, it won't be noticed; despite the fact it's quite aware it has been.

A heavy Russian accent floated, frighteningly pleasant, from behind the gun.

"My. You _do _cause a commotion. We thought we were dealing with a _human being_. It is evident we are not. We are dealing with a wild animal. I'm afraid we will not tolerate this."

Abruptly handcuffs were snapped onto my wrists and I was hoisted by the steel arms around my neck and head.

_Those goddamn Russians!_

And we walked out into the night.

There were no voices of protest. I did not expect them. This was Germany, and in Germany no one helped you. You worked, and no one helped you. This was our nature, so much so that we built them across our prisons. _Arbeit Macht Frei. _Work Gives Freedom.

"_This is not a home, this is not a Sanatorium, the only way out is by way of the chimney."_

This is why I did not panic as I was hurled into the trunk of a vehicle. The lid slammed shut; all I glimpsed was a flash of the innocent night sky. I was confronted with an insipid black hole.

I had already accepted my fate.


	3. Soviet Lies

I lay there, trembling. I touched the ceiling above me gingerly. Soft, like a felt. I wondered how many others, like me, had lain in this trunk. Waiting. Waiting. Knowing that all that was left to do was wait until they came and took you out, shoving you into another horrible place.

We drove for a long, long time it felt. The calm bumping of a car on the road, rhythmic, and deceptively innocent. I imagined the destination. A tall, dark building, concrete and menacing. A prison. Devils and demons leered from perches in place of gargoyles and angels. The memory of being told that gargoyles were carved onto buildings as guardians against evil flitted across my mind.

I think I slept. I had no concept of time, no measurement to assign to time. So it felt quite sudden and quick that I felt the wheels shudder to a halt, and I heard the steady movement of passengers getting out. With the shattering of silence, the trunk was flung open; I was struck blind by the sun. The steel hands wrenched me out; I stumbled onto gravel. In front of us was a long, long drive which led to a building that was well known on television in Germany; it was flanked by sparse, yellowing grass. Terror struck the pit of my stomach, and my gut roiled as my eyes frantically combed the brown concrete walls and the barred windows. This was Vladimir prison, situated somewhere in Russia, and known to house the more heinous of criminals. It also was where most of Russia's political prisoners were kept.

But I was not a criminal! Why had they brought me here, to such a place? I knew then that we must've driven much farther than I had anticipated.

But how? I wondered, as I was pushed forward down the drive, past the guards. I stared upwards at the windows. They were dismal eyes, gazing into my soul. I could see figures at the glass, all around me, staring down at the newcomer. A dull strum of foreboding reverberated through my bones.

_"Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."_

Past the towering doorframe, down the hallways grey and past padlocked wooden doors with metal slats we went. As we walked more men, dressed as officers, joined our group. I tried to look for the man who had pressed the gun to my head; he seemed as though he would look different from the rest. But apparently not.

We rounded onto the seventh floor. I was out of breath, staggering to keep up with the arms that dragged me. This level seemed darker than the rest, with a steel door at the end of the narrow hallway. Our group melted into a line with myself at the front, still dragged. How strange we must've looked to the prisoners we passed! But then I remembered that they could not see us.

An officer threw open the door and I was deposited lightning-quick in a wooden chair. The door boomed shut; I stared across the table at three men. Two were dressed as Generals; the other dressed as a civilian. Two guards exchanged whispers in a corner.

At first, they did not say anything. One General, a fat, slovenly-looking man, sucking on his cigar, surveyed me as if I were a mildly interesting specimen. The other, stood with his arms behind his back. He did not look at me. I felt as if he were all the more dangerous because of that. The fat man spoke first:

"Your name is Ivory Heitzman, is it not?" in Russian.

The civilian beside him repeated the question. I stared for a moment.

I nodded, though sure the question was rhetorical.

"Your mother is French, and a Literature Professor at Manhattanville College in New York, USA. Your father, born in Stalingrad despite his German lineage, is a Russian diplomat for the US government."

I closed my eyes as the General's voice began to rise.

"He has travelled in and out of Russia frequently, on apparent business terms. He has met on several occasions, Russian, German, British and American business men while in the country, and sometimes…_you_. What do you make of that, Miss. Heitzman?"

I looked at him through my bangs. He sat forward, as if dying of thirst.

"I have no idea. He is my father. Am I not supposed to say hello?"

The translator hesitated then repeated my response.

"Ah," said the General delicately. "But there are times that we know of where he visited Germany and you did not go to him. Sometimes, he was even in your own city! Imagine that!"

"I daren't imagine; it must be true if you say so." I shrugged.

He sat back looking relatively pleased by this. "Why, then," he urged, "would you only go to him while he was in Russia? It is a far journey to take. Did he not tell you when he was in Germany?"

I said nothing.

Silence stretched between us. The tension was so strong it felt as if Atlas were about to drop his load. Suddenly, the fat General smashed his fist onto the wooden table and stood.

Cigar bouncing up and down in his mouth, he screamed.

"Don't play stupid with me! We know what you have been doing! You have been caught red-handed passing Soviet secrets to the USA! You have been conspiring, with your father, to steal German secrets, pass those to America; steal Russian secrets, pass those to America, and steal American secrets, and pass those to Germany!" He dribbled.

I sat back, glaring as he continued his red-faced tirade. "Soviet lies!" I snarled, bashing my own hands on the table. The guards made a move forward, but the General paused them with a hand.

Silence prevailed once more. Everyone glared at me, and I glowered back.

"It is no matter." Said the General silkily, trying to re-compose himself. "If you will not talk, we will force it out of you. After all, we have _your_ whole life ahead of you. That is, until you are executed. You will see what happens when you work against Soviet Russia."

I could not move. Anger drained from my mind; I was frozen in place, for the realization had just hit me. No longer did I have a home. I didn't have any one who knew me who could help. My parents could not help, and my red-light district contacts would be next to worthless. As the guards came up and grabbed me, I felt panic finally seeping in my stomach, my legs, my hands, until everything was consumed and I trembled with the effort to stand. I crumpled, and let them drag me down the hall to one of the million-same doors of the prison.

They shoved me through the door, and locked it with a heart-wrenching _clunk._

I was left alone in the abyss.


End file.
